The epilogue.

Or should I say epi-LONG.

OK, let’s dispense with the poker because there’s not much to tell. I played in the $600 tournament on Sunday. It’s a silly tournament really because it’s a one-day tournament and it started at 4 PM so it’s basically a super turbo. It’s kamikaze poker. I won’t say it’s all luck because there is a skill element. There are just no applications for this particular skill in the real world. It’s like being able to fart the alphabet. (I actually know a guy who can do that).

Anyway, quickly here’s what happened. Fairly early I had about 60K from a starting stack of 25K. I raise from early position with QQ and I get called by this older guy in the Big Blind (and by “older guy” I mean a guy probably a smidge younger than me) with a similar sized stack. This guy is clearly a Playground Poker regular. Non-stop talker. Jewelry. V-neck sweater with no shirt underneath. He knows all the dealers by name, and I guess he knows all the waitresses too, assuming they’re all named “Honey”. Anyway, you get the picture. Douchebag.

Now I know this type. He sees an older guy he’s never seen before and assumes I’m a nitty recreational player. And he assumes he can out-play me post-flop.

The flop comes JT5 with no flush draws, a relatively dry board. My QQ looks better than ever. I put in a healthy bet and he immediately shoves his whole stack. I know he didn’t hit trips or he would’ve just called. Same with two pair. I figure he can’t possibly have more than a straight draw, maybe less. So, I call and I turn over my two queens. With extreme embarrassment and remorse he turns over T2 off suit. Ten-two! Off suit! And he called pre-flop from the button! The button! How did he get this far? He belongs in this hand like a moustache belongs on an apple.

If you play enough poker, you already know what happened next. He hits a 2 on the turn (of course he does!) and I’m out of the tournament. And he rakes in all my chips like he just cured cancer. Smug POS. I hope your next ex-wife has an even better lawyer than your last ex-wife.

I called it an early night and went back to my awesome hotel. I was pokered out and way overdo for a good night’s sleep, anyway. And I got it. Eight and a half blissfully uninterrupted hours.

This morning was gorgeous and sunny and brisk, and I walked down to the water and then meandered around Old Montreal for a good hour and a half listening to my Bill Simmons podcast, and it was a little bit of heaven.

And the drive home was great.

You know I always say that poker is a metaphor for life. But on the long drive home I realized that there’s an even better metaphor for life…

Traffic.

Remember this was Labour Day Weekend. We should just call it Gridlock Monday.

If you’re like me, you hate traffic even more than I do. I know that sentence makes no sense. Humor me. But going three kilometres an hour (a pace that would get me home in about nine days) is actually totally tolerable… as long as the people in the lane beside me are only going two kilometres an hour. I can totally handle traffic – no matter how brutal – as long as I’m not in the slow lane. That’s not just me, right? That’s gotta be universal.

Life/traffic metaphor #1 – Humans are incomprehensibly competitive.

Why do people remain in the slow lane!? It’s so obvious that my lane is faster than yours. And yet you stay there. You could move! But you don’t. It’s like you made a mistake and now you feel you deserve punishment. But you could move! Turn on your clicker and cut somebody off fer fuck’s sake. You’re not committed. Your fate is not sealed. You didn’t buy a house, you just chose the wrong lane. WHY ARE YOU STAYING THERE WATCHING CARS (life) PASS YOU BY?!

Life/Traffic metaphor #2 – You choose your own path.

So, we’re in gridlock just west of Kingston and my Google map app on my phone (which is designed to suss out traffic and find you the fastest route) tells me that I’m going to be in this mess for 49 minutes but that I should stay the course. I look at it ten minutes later and it still says 49 minutes. Either you’re lying to me, Google, or we’re in a time warp and the world has stopped spinning around its axis.

So, I see a big line-up of cars in the right lane clamoring to get off at the next exit. And I get a little FOMO. Why are they doing that? Do they all know something I don’t? There’s this guy in a souped-up black Camaro with his window open in that lane waiting to get off the 401. He looks like a player in the know. Big guy, big belly, brush cut, five or six chins, no neck. Like a WWE wrestler gone to seed. And he’s got a big ole black dog in the passenger seat. Not a cute little Glennie-type dog, but a big ole hound like Kevin Costner’s characters usually have in his movies.

I’ve got the top down (natch) so I yell over to him from two lanes over “Hey Bud, is that the way to go?”

He silently nods and motions for me to cut in front of him. So, I do.

Now we’re on the exit ramp and he uses the shoulder to pull up beside me and says “where ya headed?” I say “Toronto” and he says “Follow me”. My inner-lemming tells me to take the leap of faith that this guy is not a serial killer or a grifter. If he is, he picked the right guy because I’ve got seven grand in hundred-dollar bills in my knapsack beside me.

Now we’re sailing along beautiful country roads at 100 clicks, much nicer than the ugly 401, I’m blasting Hezekiah Walker and The Love Fellowship Choir, the sun is shining, and directionally-challenged as I am, I think we’re still going west. And my google map app immediately switches over to tell me that I just saved 26 minutes. Well, if you KNEW that, why didn’t YOU tell me to take this route, ya duplicitous, stupid app?!

Life/traffic metaphor #3 – Humans are better than machines.

I follow this guy for like 45 minutes turning at landmarks like Country Road 17 and Fire Station 7. I have no idea where he’s taking me. The downside is that his car is really loud and smelly, but whatever, we’re moving. At one point another car gets between us and he actually pulls over to the side of the road, motions for the other car to pass him so that he and I can stay in tandem. How nice is this guy!? Or does he have another agenda?

Soon he pulls over at a driveway to a house and motions for me to come up along side him. I do, figuring this is where he pulls out his crossbow. But no. He says to me “follow this road straight into Coburg and catch up with the 401 there. You’ll miss all the traffic” And he pulls into his driveway and waves goodbye. It was his driveway. His house. The man’s not a killer. The man’s a saint.

His license plate by the way – and I kid you not – is GRUMPY97. I’m serious, so if you happen to know this guy… please… big shout out.

Life/metaphor #4 – To get ahead in life, sometimes ya gotta get loud and smelly.

Anyway, that was my weekend. I came home to a hero’s welcome from my wife and kids and dog and everyone licked my face a lot. Well, just Glennie licked my face, but I know that the others did so in their minds.

You probably won’t hear from me for a few months. But when the weather gets cold, I get outta Dodge, so I’ll probably hit Florida and Vegas before the end of the year. See ya then.